


the sweetest tragedy

by honestlyfrance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i'm back with astronomer!bucky and artist!sam fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24398296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: "I love art," Sam had signed in ASL, his hands moving enthusiastically as Bucky held onto every word, and it's a tragedy really, when the brown in Sam's eyes had a glint of yellow in them when the sunset settled in them beautifully. "I'm a tour guide actually. Studied it all my life."Bucky had nodded, his grin almost contagious as he watched the light from the plane window outline Sam's features as if a mosaic. "Do you make art yourself?" He spoke carefully, and his ASL was wonky at best, but Sam appreciated every move of his fingers and lips.Sam smiled, mouthing, "I wish."ORSam Wilson is in love with art and a sergeant named Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	the sweetest tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> I am back with my two favorite things: Artist!Sam and Astronomer!Bucky. This is for my Disability square :D I actually wrote this on one sitting lmao, heed the warnings! Please leave feedback x
> 
> edit: will be revamped soon but happy reading this one until I get my shit together 💖

It's a goddamn tragedy, it's what it is. You love him but he's leaving, high on euphoria with a rank under his name, you're going to lose him in every universe and there's nothing you could do about it.

There's a sadness in Sam Wilson's hand as his fingers lightly tap against the skin of his lover, Bucky Barnes, and it was as if they were back at the airport where they first met, nervous and casual, a piece of kindness couldn't have turned itself into a tragedy overnight.

It was waiting for the next flight that they just so happened to have the same plane heading to Paris from England. Bucky said he was running away. Sam wanted to ask, _From what_? Bucky said he was going to be in Paris to breathe. Sam wanted to ask, _What's choking you_?

It was a small thing, as they sat together on the plane. The flight wasn't that long — just a mere one hour and thirty minutes, but, _oh God,_ Sam felt like it was centuries talking to the handsome man. With a sharp jawline like that and eyes of absolute blue, Bucky listened to Sam joking about how he'd be perfect for a portrait, and it made his tummy flip, butterflies bursting at the seams of his stomach.

" _I love art,_ " Sam had signed in ASL, his hands moving enthusiastically as Bucky held onto every word, and it's a tragedy really, when the brown in Sam's eyes had a glint of yellow in them when the sunset settled in them beautifully. " _I'm a tour guide actually. Studied it all my life._ " 

Bucky had nodded, his grin almost contagious as he watched the light from the plane window outline Sam's features as if a mosaic. "Do you make art yourself?" He spoke carefully, and his ASL was wonky at best, but Sam appreciated every move of his fingers and lips.

Sam smiled, mouthing, " _I wish._ "

"Now, stars, I believe in. I'll wish on one for you. Never failed me once." And Bucky's smile wasn't supposed to burn like this, but it did. 

Sam's breathing hitched as he eyed the piece of work in front of him, a gorgeous piece by Géricault, _The Raft Of Medusa,_ but his eyes weren't truly eyeing the rawness of the form, the depiction of survival, or the art techniques behind it. Sam thinks of the time he held the stars in his hands, and he couldn't feel the warmth of them now.

The whole place was silent but Sam could hear the beating of Bucky's heart, and it terrified him, how loudly love could actually be. Sam never thought he could have such mercy, then again, he didn't think Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ could mean so much to him than before.

" _I love Starry Night, I think_ ," Bucky had spoken in French, and his ASL had gotten better. The piece was right before them, and Sam takes a moment to breathe in the moment. " _Or maybe I just like the stars_." 

Sam had laughed at that, couldn't contain his joy anymore so he said it out loud. His voice was raspy from the weariness and being unused, and it was only a moment, a small second, you wouldn't even hear it, but Bucky was so close, could even feel Sam's breath against his chin, it's so _goddamn_ intimate. That laugh sounded like bells and Bucky made sure to tell him.

That was two months ago and Sam couldn't dwell on how many moments he wasted by staying in Paris instead of following Bucky back to Brooklyn, but his heart aches at the mere mention of the Eiffel Tower. Paris has been kinder to Sam than London ever could, and it's a breath of fresh air he could never have anticipated.

Bucky squeezed Sam's hand, and he couldn't feel the stars. They couldn't feel the burning passion of the stars in their hands anymore and the sun had lost its glow, but Bucky assured them that they still have the moon. _Oh_ , Sam always had the moon… only had the moon.

It was a few days of walking aimlessly numb with the moon that Sam had wanted what he needed, for the first time in a long time. He finds himself disheveled, packing his things after long deliberation, and getting away as fast as possible from London. London has once been kind to him, but the rain never smelled so bitter than before. There was terror in those London streets and there was no art that could've made him stay there. His heart doesn't break as he leaves but it's shattered as he runs.

Sam had lived and loved in London for three undying years and he's found the toxicity in the air, choking him to bits until he was lifeless. He needed to get out of there. _What's choking you?_ Sam needed to breathe until all he had left was oxygen in his lungs. He needed to run away from the tremor in his hands and his beating heart. He needed to run away from his wars.

"I hate heights," Bucky had spoken on the flight so long ago, two years ago, when he had suddenly grabbed Sam's hand when the engine roared for takeoff. "Do you— Sorry, um," he remembered to speak in ASL, and he's more nervous than before, "Planes included. I'm afraid of them."

Bucky's grip was tighter this time as they stood under the roof of the Louvre, and, yes, they may have felt the love of France in a single lightbulb, but they also felt fear run through their veins. Bucky shuddered beside Sam and the latter could feel the walls closing in, the single sentence still stuck in the air. It winked like a star but had mischief like rivers.

_They're bringing me to Afghanistan._

Nightmares of dunes and the scorching sun reached Sam's nerves and those same nightmares decided to play with him once again, and it's all they ever done, all they ever do. Lifeless and numb like a fool, Sam let's them get him fucked over and over and over and over and _over—_

"I won't talk about it," Bucky had traced on Sam's bare skin some sleepless nights ago, so long ago, sometime in February with winter grabbing hold of their windows. Bucky planted another kiss on Sam's hips and he could himself decay under the passion. "I promise. But…Whenever you're ready."

Love on those kinds of nights was slow. Just how they like their love. Slow, agonizing, because they were both lovers of creation, because they craved the legacy of paintings and planets, because they wanted this to last for centuries longer.

"I'm sorry," Bucky whispered under the intimidation of the Louvre, and there's a choking sob behind those words, as if they were mourning the demise of their relationship. Sam didn't hear it. Sam _couldn't_ hear it. "I'm so sorry. The stars didn't hear me, I was…" his breathing was stuttered, and he feared that he couldn't breathe in France.

It was back at Afghanistan, Afghanistan, Afghanistan, it was —

Sam shook his head. All he could feel was the strum of pulses in Bucky's wrist. His fingers twist to feel it, feel the strum of life in his lover before it inevitably disappears one day.

" _I love you,_ " Sam had signed all those moons ago.

Bucky had written down one accompanying line: _I love you too,_ on a piece of paper. Sam's heart knew nothing of tragedy then.

Sam and Bucky couldn't look at each other under the Louvre. _The Raft of Medusa_ hung still before them, and all they saw was red. Red, red. So much of it.

" _Kiss me again and make me forget of heartache_ ," Sam signed, his hand shaking at every single moment. His eyes were empty, full of fear. 

Bucky's free hand found itself caressing Sam's cheek, then he swooped in, quick but deep, his lips mark a kiss that burned brighter than a supernova. Sam kisses just as deep. There's pain in it, but that didn't matter at the moment.

They kissed again in the Louvre, forgot London and Afghanistan for a moment, and recreated every single tragedy in history to commemorate their love into the stars.

The pain was quick. The letter was quick. The pain was ripped off like a bandaid, but why was Sam's quiet muffled sobs lasted for eight months? Why did the stars turn dead and forgot Bucky's wish three years ago?

_I wish Sam could draw. Find the meaning behind the reason artists paint._

It was a sleepless lifetime, and all Sam wanted to do was rot. Rot with Bucky as they buried an empty coffin. He wanted to scream so badly until he could hear his own voice again. Sam wanted to paint bruises on his skin like the love bites Bucky puts on him, gathered like a constellation, better than _Starry Night_ ever could.

"You're the only art piece I know," Bucky had spoken before he left for Brooklyn those years ago, promising to come back. _Come back._

Sam runs away until his legs find themselves burning at every step. He left Paris for Versailles and mourned beneath the stars, asking for one last wish he couldn't have. He moves on to Amsterdam and goes ahead to Moscow, breathing in death as deeply as he could. _I've loved him, I've loved him, I've loved him_ , Sam loved Bucky the way he loved art, and even so, he loved until he couldn't feel his hands anymore.

 _I wish Sam could draw, like he always wanted to_.

Sam grieves once more in America, under the stop lights and burning billboards. America never meant anything to him, but Queens left a mark on his soul. He moves on to Louisiana then to San Francisco, moves along Asia next then he doesn't know what to do. He tried to find reason behind the names of the places he never knew and wanted _one_ name in his bones. _James Barnes_ , and this was a tragedy Sam couldn't even own.

 _I wish Sam found the reason why artists paint_.

Tragedy.

When Sam lifted the paintbrush and immortalized words into colors, he found the reason why. It was ugly, but it was peace. Instead of fleeing, Sam stayed in Versailles. Sam stayed for the stars that Bucky had once believed in, but he still couldn't find the reason why Bucky needed to breathe. _What's your poison_? Ah, it was the same reason why Sam didn't feel for the art.

Artists painted to immortalize the tragedy of the lack of love in their lives.

Sam painted for the same reason: _Bucky Barnes_.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @honestlyfrance


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